


Dreaming of You

by cyankelpie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Confession, Dreams, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, You already know exactly which Good Omens fanfic trope this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: This was the third time Aziraphale had used his “dream of whatever you like best” trick on Crowley. It was sweet of him to be concerned, but he really,reallywasn’t helping matters. Plus, Aziraphale had informed him that he had a tendency to talk in his sleep.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 233
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Dreaming of You

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I know this has been done a thousand times before, but I've had this sitting in my folder for a while, and I figured we could all use some extra fluff.

Crowley stared up at the star-filled sky, one hand in the grass and the other sifting through Aziraphale’s hair. The angel wriggled a little to get closer to him, even though he was already lying with his head on Crowley’s chest. Warm contentment washed through Crowley, and his breath came slow and long. “’S nice and clear tonight,” he murmured.

“Mm,” Aziraphale agreed. “Crowley?”

“Aziraphale?”

“Would you do something?”

“Anything.”

Aziraphale reached up and took hold of the hand that Crowley had in his hair. “Marry me.”

Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. “Yes,” he half-whispered.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Crowley raised his head a little to look down at Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes were sparkling almost as bright as the stars. “Of course. I love you. This is almost…Oh, wait a minute.” His heart sank. He eased himself out from under Aziraphale and set the angel’s head down on the grass. Too good to be true. “Bless it, not again.”

He woke up, as he did every time, in the bookshop, with Aziraphale nearby but still so much further away than he had been in the dream. “Angel,” he said irritably, looking around for him. He wasn’t in his usual chair. Crowley eventually found him on the other end of the sofa, a book in his lap and a mug of cocoa in one hand. “I told you to stop doing that.”

“You were having a nightmare,” Aziraphale said stubbornly. “It sounded like a bad one.”

“It always sounds bad,” said Crowley. “Doesn’t mean I want you messing around with my head.”

This was the third time Aziraphale had used his “dream of whatever you like best” trick on Crowley. It was sweet of him to be concerned, but he really, _really_ wasn’t helping matters. Crowley never minded having his visions of fire and brimstone and burning books replaced suddenly with a smiling Aziraphale in his arms, until he had to wake up to an Aziraphale who was not only all the way across the room, but also not inclined to be with him romantically, much less marry him. He knew it was unfair of him to be disappointed, but it was becoming more and more difficult not to be. Plus, Aziraphale had informed him that he had a tendency to talk in his sleep. It was only a word or two here and there, but one word was all it would take.

Aziraphale sipped his cocoa and looked back at his book. “What were you dreaming about?”

“The Bentley.” Since the first dream incident, Crowley had been prepared with an answer just in case Aziraphale asked. “I was flying down the M25, no other cars in sight, Queen blasting out the stereo.”

Aziraphale sipped his cocoa. In a tone that, to anyone except Crowley, would have sounded nonchalant, he said, “You said my name that time.”

Crowley tried very hard not to flinch. “Yeah, you were there too,” he improvised. “Screaming your head off the entire time. It was hilarious.”

Aziraphale glanced at him, but not for long enough for Crowley to decipher the emotion behind his eyes. He turned back to the book, but his eyes weren’t moving to read it. “I love you too, Crowley.”

Crowley’s heart stopped. He was caught somewhere between mortified and completely elated, except Aziraphale couldn’t have just said what he thought he’d said. Maybe the bastard had wrapped him in another layer of dream, although if that were the case Aziraphale would probably be a lot closer. Crowley tried to swallow, but his throat had forgotten how. It had been quiet for too long. He ought to say something. Except he was never as articulate in real life as he was in his dreams, and all he managed to get out was, “Uhh. What.”

Aziraphale cast him another sidelong glance, but stopped short of actually looking him in the face. “Don’t you dare,” he said slowly, “try to tell me you were talking to the car.”

Slowly recovering from the initial shock of hearing Aziraphale say those words, Crowley moved on to embarrassment and disbelief at himself. After six thousand years of appending to and rewriting and restructuring the things he never thought he’d be able to say, he refused to accept that he had just confessed to Aziraphale _in his sleep_. He couldn’t let that slide.

“Okay,” he said, pulling himself unsteadily into something better resembling a seated position. “First of all, you know how I feel about the Bentley, and yes, for the record, I absolutely was talking to the car. But now that you bring it up. I do. Erm. Love you.” This wasn’t going much better. The speeches he’d composed in his head had always sounded so much nicer, but as always, he was never that articulate in real life. “A lot,” he tried adding. His voice cracked. “More than the car.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Now Aziraphale looked at him, and his eyes were soft and a little misty. “I love you even more than the bookshop.”

“Nghhhk.” Crowley had to look away. It was blinding. He only now realized that Aziraphale must have, at some point during the dream, have gotten up from his chair to come sit on the other end of the sofa next to Crowley. “And, it’s not,” he began, struggling to string words together. “It’s, you’re sure it’s not…too fast?”

“No, my dear.”

Crowley swallowed hard. “And, you’ll tell me if it is?”

“I will,” said Aziraphale. “But you needn’t be so worried about that anymore. I rather think it’s been long enough.”

Crowley dug his fingernails into his arm to check that he wasn’t still dreaming. The pain didn’t wake him up, and as Aziraphale was still a foot or two away and neither of them had proposed yet, he had to conclude that this was really happening. He felt light-headed. After waiting for so long for this, he couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to do.

Aziraphale helped him out there. Setting down the cocoa, he reached across the sofa and took Crowley’s hand. “I am sorry if the dream thing embarrassed you,” he said, weaving their fingers together. “I didn’t think—I mean, I always assumed it would be the Bentley or something. I didn’t…I didn’t think I’d be that lucky.”

The feeling of Aziraphale’s hand in his made it difficult to process anything else. But it was real. Aziraphale loved him, and it was real. “That makes two of us.”


End file.
